‘Yes.’
‘Like a farm with animals? Or like a country retreat?’
‘Like my house in the country that used to be a farm.’
‘You have a house in the country?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why? You live and work in the city.’
‘That’s exactly why. The press don’t seem to know about it and?—’
‘The press?’
‘Once your name is published in The Times’s Rich List, your life becomes public property.’
‘The Times’s Rich List? So if I Google you?—’
‘Don’t do that,’ he snaps. ‘The press prints all kinds of rubbish and I’d rather you make up your own mind.’
I already have.
‘You see the problem is, Mr Ryans, when you tell a person not to do something, generally, they have a greater desire to do that exact thing.’
He continues to focus on the road ahead but his jaw rolls stiffly.
We turn left at a roundabout then right onto what’s little more than a dirt track. The Aston Martin bounces as it flies across loose stones and uneven road. The daylight dims as we drive through a small forest with pine trees flanking us on either side. Then the light increases again and the trees disappear so that I can see the farm. I gawp in Gregory’s direction but he pretends not to notice.
The farm is really more of an estate. The red-brick building with white, Georgian windows continues to grow as we drive closer. The long, old barn has been extended into an L shape and the old farmhouse stands tall at one end so the whole thing looks like an angular horseshoe. The uneven surface beneath the car has been replaced by soft gravel. We drive up to a circular, stone fountain in the middle of the horseshoe. I close my open mouth with the back of my hand as Gregory walks around the back of the DB9 to open the passenger door for me.
Perfectly spherical trees mark the start of the path to the house. I turn at the sound of the DB9 being driven away from the fountain by an elderly, grey-haired man and see a younger, slim, mousey-blond man carrying our bags behind us. We continue up the pathway passing stylised trees: noughts and crosses, a figure of eight, love hearts. At the end of the path, an archway made from one unbroken tree decorates the porch entrance.
‘Wow, these are amazing!’ I say almost inwardly. ‘I take it you have a gardener?’
‘As much as I’d like to say they’re my handy work, yes, I do have a gardener, though an old friend actually did the trees. He’s a sculptor. He dabbles in quite a lot of techniques and materials. These are essentially made from one tree. It’s a process called?—’
‘Grafting. I’ve heard of it. Two different species grown together to make one purposely designed tree.’
‘Exactly. This one,’ Gregory says, resting onto the tree that looks like a noughts and crosses board, ‘is based on a piece called Needle and Thread by Axel Erlandson. He created an entire place called The Tree Circus in California and displayed his work there.’
I nod, running a hand over the marvel. ‘My dad had a book about him. I remember looking through it as a child. Your friend is really fantastic.’
‘He has an exhibition right now at The Saatchi Gallery. Maybe we could go.’
‘I’d like that.’
He opens the door into the vestibule and two dogs bark wildly until they realise it’s Gregory walking into the house. He bends to stroke them as they spin and wag their tails excitedly.
‘They’re gorgeous,’ I say, bending to knee height to stroke the liver-and-white-spotted dog. ‘I didn’t have you down as a dog man.’
‘Well, they live here and they’re supposed to be guard dogs, aren’t you?’ he says, ruffling the head of the almost entirely liver-coloured dog. ‘They’re pointers; they come on shoots and hunts.’
‘You hunt?’
‘In season, yes.’
‘Do you ride horses?’
